Burn
by ShadesChaos
Summary: Draco realises just what 'the power he knows not' is. And he wants it.
1. Cold

Harry Potter belongs to me. god smites author Ok ok I lied...He is property of J.K. Rowling. glares at sky Are you happy now! sulks

**Thaw**

_Liquid life. That was the only term to describe the euphoria passing over his tongue. There was no single word for the succulent flavor. It was a grand concoction of all of the things he enjoyed. Somehow it reminded him of late nights spent under the night sky, spread out across the cool grass and savoring the richness of the night. It resembled the peaceful bliss of sleep, dropping heavy shrouds over his mind to temporarily muffle the screaming voices of his life. It was also light, almost sweet, like little bits of humor only he could understand. It was all of the above, night, sleep, inside jokes, and muffled laughter. It was also so much more. He could spend the rest of his life describing it and never come close. Despite all of it only one thing mattered. It was _**his**

A heavy eyelid began to slide skyward, revealing a single bleary silver eye. Its twin remained stubbornly closed, denying wakefulness for a few seconds longer before reluctantly joining its counterpart. Draco was awake.

Draco wasn't sure he wanted to be awake; he had been having the most delightful dream. He couldn't really recall the details, but he knew it had been beyond pleasant. He remained stationary for a few moments, attempting to recall the illusive details of the dream. All he could seem to recall was a fierce possessiveness over something. He had had something in his grasp and he was unwilling to release it. Other then that the dream had slipped uselessly through his clasping fingers, as insubstantial as vapor.

Stifling a groan, Draco temporally set aside his losing battle in favor of finding something to silence the soft growls emanating from his stomach. Still, it took all of his mustered effort to throw aside the velvet green curtains separating his bed from the rest of the common room. Gingerly, he slipped from beneath his coverlet and placed his bare feet upon the dungeon floor. Instead of the chilled stone of the rest of the chamber his feet met the soft weave of an expensive rug. Still, the temperature bled through the thick silk and met his flesh, traveling up his body with the tenderness and thoroughness of a lover.

Draco loved his dungeon room; he loved the dark complexities and the flickering torchlight. But Draco couldn't stand the cold. The stone seemed to swallow any form of heat yet still remained icy to the touch. The heat emanating from a roaring fireplace would only reach a few feet from its source, before being consumed by greedy stones.

The young man was finding it harder and harder to reclaim his warmth from his frozen surroundings. He felt as if his flesh was freezing from the inside out. As if his blood itself was gradually growing colder, and infecting the surrounding flesh with its icy ailment. Draco shivered at the thought and ran his hands along his arms, trying unsuccessfully to heat this flesh with the friction. His hands slid along the smooth skin raising gooseflesh in their wake, but the cold wasn't external, and wasn't to be availed by such mundane methods.

Giving up and suppressing a shiver, he slipped his feet into his slippers before leaving the relative safety of his silken island. The rattling snores coming from within the velvet hangings of the other beds told Draco his roommates were still in safely the clutch of sleep. Those oafs wouldn't be opening their vacant eyes until Draco was groomed, dressed, and ready to terrorize the great hall.

After a scalding shower that did little to warm his chilled flesh, and an hour before a mirror to ensure physical perfection, Dracos roommates were dragging their half-dead forms out of bed and pulling on the nearest garments at hand. Draco couldn't suppress a grimace as his housemate donned yesterdays food stained jumper, backwards. Draco observed this spectacle with boredom in his eyes, watching impatiently while leaned against the doorframe.

"Crabbe, change your jumper you great lump. And try to put it on correctly this time, your mum isn't here to dress you anymore." Draco's drawling, cultured tone let no room for argument. Crabbe immediately discarded the offending garment and began rummaging through his trunk for a fresh one. A single mercury glare silenced Goyle's brainless guffaw.

When the ogres were finally in a semi-presentable state Draco allowed them to take their places flanking his back on the trek up to the great hall.

As the silent trio ascended the stairs toward the more inviting area of the castle the temperature rose several noticeable degrees, the cold seeping from their surroundings and reluctantly retreating down to the chilled dank of the dungeons. Draco thought of it like an entity, lying in wait to reclaim him upon his inevitable return.

Stepping into the great hall could be compared to an abrupt portkey from a freezer to a furnace. The warmth scalded and caressed his skin, coaxing the blood back to the surface. Draco's eyes widened fractionally unable to move, almost overwhelmed by the sensations bringing his dead flesh back to life. It was if he had become reacquainted to a forgotten heat he hadn't missed until its return. He was intoxicated.

"Bloody hell!" a voice said from across the hall, breaking into his trance, "I cut myself."

Thank you for participating in my first fanfiction experience. Feel free to review I would love the feedback.


	2. Crystals

Okay. I hae recieved a total of two reviews. Maybe I am not as good as I thought I was. -Shrugs- Whatever. I will write this anyway. As long as I have inspiration.

Harry Potter and co. not mine in any way shape or form. If they were...-censored- hehehehe...

On with a useless instilation of the story.

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Slowly, almost painfully, silver eyes came to rest upon the sluggishly bleeding hand. The inky black pupils expanded to conquer the clouded irises. Dracos thoughts were no longer his own, his sole concern lied with the crimson liquid seeping from the fresh wound.

Distantly, he felt his tongue dart out to moisten suddenly parched lips. His vision was narrowed, only the weeping cut left visible through the burgundy haze. Slowly. Somewhere deep within his body something moved. It slid painstakingly aside to free something Draco had not even been aware of. The cold was free.

It slid fluidly from its prison at his core expanding to fill his limbs, running through his veins, freezing his blood. Miniscule particles of ice scraped along his capillaries, leaving long gashes in their wake. The cold was destroying the flawed vessel to make way for something else, something greater.

Draco was vaguely aware of the pain, of the blood tears staining his face. It was distant, a mere buzzing in his ears. The scent of the seeping blood held him in a drugged euphoria, cushioning him from his own agony. He never heard his own screams.

Harry Potter had often wondered whether there was a deity somewhere he had somehow offended. As he met Malfoy dazed silver eyes, he was quite certain he had.

He allowed his injured hand to bleed freely as he watched Malfoy teeter dangerously and somehow subconsciously regain his tenacious balance. All eyes were trained on the young heir. For once, Harry felt traces of concern for his long time rival.

Normally he would have made a snide comment about Malfoys delicate constitution, but something held him back. Insulting the blonde boy seemed to be a foolish idea at the moment. Though it did not seem as if Ron Weasly had the same insight.

"Bugger Malfoy I didn't know the sight of blood left you speechless. Finally the secret to silencing your fat mouth has been discovered," he shouted to the incoherent boy while performing an overdramatic swooning impression. By the time the red haired boy was finished with his sentence he had slumped onto the table. The building tension shattered, and laughter erupted in the hall.

The usually quick tempered boy did not even acknowledge Ron's theatrics. His intense eyes were fixed upon Harry and his bleeding hand. Without warning warning, the blonde parted his lips and _screamed._

The cry seemed to rip itself from the blonde boys' throat of its own volation, deflating the fragile veil of humor. Rivulets of blood were running from his wide silver eyes dripping down his pale face, staining the pallid canvas with a vivid burgundy. The tears began to freeze and drop to the floor, each crimson crystal punctuated by a metallic plunk.

Frost erupted from the Slytherin, crawling along the surfaces of his body and spreading to his robes like a vile disease. It spread from his feet in a steadily expanding ring consuming the stone floor of the great hall in its wake.

Dracos outward appearance began to change. The ice seemed to sculpt his features. Before harrys eyes, Draco matured. He lengthened, still retaining his natural slenderness but obtaining a tall willowy physique. His face thinned into a strong profile, aquiline nose jutting proudly from between high cheekbones. His lips became more full, darker, emanating masculine sensuality.

Harry could sense the change occurring within the Slytherin. His psychical alterations paled in prospective to the cold power unfurling within him. He could feel it, rising slowly to the surface in all of its dark glory.

And though Harry was afraid to admit it, it excited him. It was as if something within him had been anticipating this, or as if the cold within Draco had been anticipating _him._


	3. Courage

Alright. I am very happy with my reviews. No flames yet. YAY! LOVE ME! (You have no choice. It is in the subliminal messaging of this chapter muahahah)

Potter and CO. aren't mine. If they were, Harry wouldn't be such a jerk in books 5 and 6. And there would be little Draco/harrys running around and causing havoc on their poor parents.

The pain left him abruptly enough to leave aftershocks in its wake. The haze lifted, leaving Draco's world in crystal clarity. The cold was no longer an entity within him, but a part of his very being.

With deliberate care Draco stretched his body skyward, reveling in his freedom as the ice cracked and fell from his skin in crystalline shards, shattering on the rapidly melting floor. This was the power his dreams had granted him. He turned his head, arching his slender neck in an effort to reach the source of the glorious power. Harry.

"The power he knows not hmm?" Draco mumbled, quoting a prophesy his father had told him. His lips broadened into a smile, feral and menacing,. With a graceful hand he saluted the Potter boy, and slipped from the room as if nothing had happened. He had some research to do.

"What the bloody hell was _that,"_ exclaimed a shocked Harry, staring after the blonde. "And why isn't anybody doing anything? He could be hurt!" True to his words, the entire hall had resumed breakfast as if nothing had happened. Silverware clinked on golden plates, conversations resumed, laughter echoed in the vaulted ceilings, and not a mention of Draco Malfoy.

"Who mate?" Mumbled Ron around a mouthful of bacon, earning a slap from Hermione.

"Ronald! Don't talk with your mouth full. It's rude," she admonished, never once looking up from an incredibly thin volume titled _House Elf Rebellions of the Eighteenth Century._

"Yesh Her-my-ee," said Ron sheepishly, hastily swallowing the bacon and turning his attention to Harry. "But really Harry, who are you talking about?"

"Malfoy!" Harry said impatiently.

"Malfoy? What do you mean?" Said Hermione, glancing up from her book, "We haven't seen him since dinner last night. Are you wandering around after hours again? Because if you are I'll have to deduct house points. I have to set an example, and that means no favorite-"

"Blimey Harry! What the hell happened to your hand?" Ron exclaimed, gesturing to Harry's forgotten wound.

"My hand? Oh! My hand! I cut it when Malfoy came in." He said, hastily bandaging it with a napkin.

"Malfoy hasn't been here this morning Harry. I would have noticed." Said Hermione with concern in her eyes, "Maybe you should visit the hospital wing?" She suggested.

"I don't thin…. Ok. Maybe I should." Harry slipped from his seat and gathered his things, bound for the hospital wing.

A pair of frosty silver eyes watched the slight boy exit the hall, their owner tucked safely into a shadowed niche. Draco was not sure what had happened, he was running on complete instinct. And instinct told him to stay close to his…To his…Oh hell, he did not know how Potter was connected to him, but he did know that that source of raw undiluted magic was his.

He guessed that he should be frightened. Hell he knew he _should_ be frightened. But it all seemed strangely natural. He didn't want to question it. It seemed to transcend answers. All that was important was Potter, and thatcrimson power pulsating within him.

The eyes narrowed and tracked his movement as he made his way down the corridor. The cold force lay coiled within Draco, strangely pacified, still alert, waiting in the background for the moment it was called upon again. Where had that intoxicating power gone? It was still there, trapped beneath potters flesh, but Draco no longer had access.

Abruptly, Harry changed direction, slipping behind a tapestry and into a corridor Draco had not known about. Draco smirked, this could wait. He knew Harry could not hide that lovely energy for much longer, he could feel its need to escape. Draco could wait. But not for long.

TBC


	4. Cut

Ok. All of you lovely little reviewers appealed my distinct sense of narcissism. So it demanded that I reward you with a chapter.

Narcissism: Damned straight!

Modesty: But I dun wanna!

Narcissism: Glares at modesty You wuss!

Modesty: Shaddup. whines If I wont write anymore, and you wont get complimented. :p

Narcissism: Damn you!

Modesty: Harry potter does not belong to me….

Narcissism: But the plot does! LOVE ME!

Modesty: beats narcissism with the plot and throws him in the closet. I hope you like it .

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Harry trekked absently up the stairs, occasionally stubbing a toe on a step. His attention was on Draco, and the event in the great hall that no one seemed to recall. He turned it over thoughtfully in his mind. Was he hallucinating? He was the only one who seemed to have seen it. No. During the incident they saw Draco. Ron even made fun of him. It made no sense.

"Clairvoyance," automatically, Harry spoke the password to the sculpture, still trapped within his own thoughts.

The bronze knight stepped aside with an affronted look, annoyed at being put off so flippantly, but still honor bound to perform his duty. He let a mail-clad leg remain barring the impudent childs path.

Harry, was far too absorbed within his contemplations to take notice of the knights tactics, and moved foreword, tripping over the extended mail-clad foot. As he hit the stone floor in a sprawled heap, he heard the satisfied chuckle of the bronze knight as it resumed its sentry position over the hidden staircase.

Dimly, Harry noted his scraped and freely bleeding knees. He groaned inwardly, lately, any little thing would cause him to bleed, extensively. It was as if his body was looking for excuses to release his life force. Just the day before, Hermoine had prodded him with the tip of her quill to get his attention, and created a gushing wound in his arm. It had taken ten minutes to staunch the flow.

Harry gingerly regained his feet, wincing as he felt warm trails of blood forging their way down his legs. After assuring himself that no one else occupied the corridor, he slumped against a wall and unfastened his robe. Carefully, he began to roll up the legs of his trousers to examine the damage. The wound was far too serious for being tripped in the corridor.

He heard the knight gasp as his shredded knees were revealed. They were much worse then he had thought. Blood was running in steadily rivulets down his calves and pooling in his shoes. Torn flesh assaulted his eyes, ripped into a crimson maniac grin.

Harry could vaguely see the knight shift his weight nervously, his armor screeching with his nervous motion. He silenced the guilty sculpture with a verdant glare and went about fixing his knees in a clinical fashion. He removed his wand from the sleeve of his robe and conjured some bandages, not trusting himself with a complex healing spell. He wrapped and rewrapped the wounds several times, until he could no longer see crimson splotches appearing on the surface of the gauze. He then used the remaining scraps to sop up the remaining blood as best he could, before storing the bloody scraps in the hidden staircase.

He had to go to the hospital wing. He was certain Madame Pomfrey would know what was wrong.

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When Draco Malfoy said he was willing to wait he did not expect results so fast. No sooner then three minutes after potter had left his sight the surge had returned. The cold once again rose to the surface, demanding. Draco was no sure what it was that he wanted but by innate sense the cold knew.

He let it guide him, the chill urging him toward the staircase he had seen Potter disappear into. He could feel it. The raw energy beckoning him and caressing his senses. It began to thaw the rough edges of the cold force lurking within his blood. He wanted more. He crept up the stairs on silent feet, the need intensifying with each step. He could hear movement in the corridor beyond, the metallic screech of armour, the muffled movements of potter.

When he reached the knight, something stopped him. It was too soon to be seen. He had to be sure of himself first. Silently, Draco knelt behind the knight, peering through his loose fingers. What he saw astounded him.

Potter was slumped against the wall, his slight frame sprawled gracelessly. The boy was far smaller then Draco himself, delicate, almost feminine. His mussed hair was black enough to shine blue in the dim corridor lighting; the odd angles and dark sheen making it seem etherally unnatural. His lily white skin contrasted directly against his dark hair, long curved eyelashes standing out in fine relief against the delicate cheekbones. His unnaturally red lips were pursed as he surveyed his own injurys. His large green eyes narrowed as he examined himself with cool detachment.

Draco felt his eyes drawn downward, past baggy jeans bunched about the boys thighs to his knees. Pieces of torn skin wept shining tears in graceful patterns down the boys hairless calves. They bled profusely, the crimson stains contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Draco was captivated. He wanted nothing more then to lick the crimson from the boys slender calves. The blood, all the blood, that's where the Potter's power lies.

Draco was surprised by his own revelation. This was where that intoxicating energy was coming from? Potters blood? He was astounded by his own eagerness, his lack of disgust. He supposed he should try to fight the feeling of ownership creeping up from his chest, but that was far too much effort.


	5. Crisis

Ello again. Sorry for the wait. Ive got no real excuse other then I really didn't feel like writing. Perhaps I will get back into this. Either way I am happy people are reading it, as short as it is.

Harry isn't mine. Obviously. Feel free to sue me, but you can pry my laptop from my cold dead fingers.

Mademe Poppy Pomfry resisted a strong urge to roll her eyes as the small Gryffindor sidled sheepishly into the hospital wing. She quickly assessed his figure, noticing several old wounds that the boy had neglected to bring her. She opened her mouth, prepared to deliver a scathing lecture about the importance of proper wound treatment but stopped.

The boy was looking up at her with his large, green eyes, his lids purposefully lowered to partially distort her view with a curtained fringe of black lashes. He played this trick often enough, softening her edges with those venerable eyes of his. His hair had fallen artfully over his face, not quite obscuring his self suffering pout. The boy was really insufferable.

"Fine Mr. Potter," she told the boy, her lips pursed to hide her amusement, "You win. You wouldn't follow my advice anyway so I won't plague myself with your incessant pouting. On the table young man."

The pout fell away like a mask, revealing the cheeky, insolent boy she knew and loved. He jauntily slipped out of his baggy trousers and hopped onto the tabletop, his modesty long since shed before the impartial nurse.

He really should had been a Slytherin, she mused. He knew his advantages and played on them. Instead of resenting his angelic countenance, he used it to his advantage, often oozing innocence to avoid conflict. She knew she was being manipulated with those big green eyes, but she couldn't find the energy to be annoyed with them. That boy truly had the castle in the palm of his hand.

She didn't even flinch at the sight of the boys mangled knees. She merely tightened her lips and set to work, first cleansing the lascerations then knitting them together, tracing the weeping edges with her wands tip. They both watched in morbid fascination as the flesh mended seamlessly in the wands wake.

"Madame?" he questioned, his nervousness betrayed by slender fingers twisting to awkward angles in his lap.

"Yes Harry," she replied, clearly distracted by the task at hand.

"Umm…" he hesitated, searching for the proper words, "I've been having problems, with bleeding." An awkward beginning.

"Tell me more," she demanded. She did not look up, but she focused her attention on the boys words. Her hands continued from instinct born of practice.

"Well- It started a few weeks ago. It was like…a pressure, building up inside of me over time. Its not painful, more like, uncomfortable. It was gradual, so I never saw much to complain about. But the blood. Its like I've become fragile. The smallest things will cause cuts that will bleed excessively. I don't know how to react." He punctuated his worry by capturing the nurses gaze imploringly.

"And…At breakfast this morning…" Pomfry watched expectantly as he trailed off.

"At breakfast this morning…?" She prompted hopefully. He seemed nervous, almost frightened. His fingers had become complicated knots, his eyes bright with something…fear?

"I cut my hand." He finished hastily, offering his cleanly sliced palm for her inspection.

She sighed inwardly, knowing she could not cajole that tidbit from the stubborn teen. She hastily healed the cut with her wand hand, her left hand pulling three neatly stoppered bottles of potion from the shelf beside the cot. One swirled with shades of smoky red, the second was peachy color, while the third looked suspiciously like veritaserum, completely transparent.

"I am going to have to do some research to diagnose you. In the meantime I proscribe these potions to use as needed…"

The nurse did not release him until she had done several tests, and taken samples of things he did not even know he had. Harry left the hospital wing with a lighter heart, the potions secured in his bag, and a command to return if his condition changed in the slightest. The red liquid turned out to be a blood replenishing potion. The creamy toned would reduce scarring. The transparent, when applied with a wand, would act as a premade healing charm.

He slipped into transfigurations an hour late, and settled into his customary seat on Hermione's left side. McGonagall ignored him, having already been informed of his medical predicament by Ms. Granger.

He stared at the plain wooden block on the table confusedly until Hermione predictably came to his rescue. "We are to turn it into a potted tree. A transformation of dead matter to similar living matter. The incantation and explanation is on page 371."

He flashed her a charming smile. "Thanks." He quickly began his lesson, Malfoy temporarily forgotton.


	6. Cornered

Sorry. It's been to long. I doubt anyone remembers this. But my muse suddenly decided to force mt to do here bidding. And here it is. I know its not up to my usual standard. But I am rather fond of parts. Don't hate me. cries

By the way. This Chapter is dedicated to Silver Tears 11...Cause you said I had fans...wipes tears

Chapter 4

Poppy Pomfrey had been interested in medicine for as long as she could remember. While the other girls her age toyed around with dolls and dresses, she dutifully monitored her suffed bears imaginary with a little plastic sthesescope. As she grew, she poured over medical texts far beyond her level, barely scraping through in any class not related to her passion. Not from lack of intelligence, they simply weren't worth her time. She could clearly say she was experienced in her field. But she had never seen anything like this.

Before her hovered a three dimensional globe. An image of the cells from the blood she had drawn from Harry earlier. And they were _pulsing._ Not only that, but his red blood cells were dividing at an alarming rate, as if he had already taken a blood replenishing potion. It wasn't possible.

For the first time in years, she felt out of her depth. She simply couldn't come up with a logical explanation for Harry's new predicament. And that worried her.

Within the confines of her mind, she saw a flash of his self assured green stare, cocky and innocent all at once, and she knew he would get through it. But she didn't know what it would cost him. That child had suffered enough. She had been there first had to piece him back together on more then one occasion. No. He wouldn't do it alone.

And with that moment of resolve, she gathered up her samples and notes and went to consult the headmaster about his protégé's most recent predicament. Here strides were swift and purposeful, those of a woman on a mission.

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Draco was treading mental thin ice. He felt as if his mind teetered on a precipice. A narrow crystalline bridge held him aloft between two worlds. On one sided lay an inferno, flames reaching up with flickering fingers, prepared to pull him down and devour him whole. On the other side was a barren wasteland, a flat sheet of smooth featureless ice stretching as far as the eye could see, devoid of color, life, and _warmth. _He could sense madness roaming that field, prowling restlessly, searching for an unlucky traveler to embrace.

For some reason he knew, that if he were to tumble into either world, there would be no escape. He could sense rather then see salvation in the distance, beckoning him with verdant light. Life was still within his grasp. But the grave alternatives were already eating away at the bridge, flaking away crystalline shards from the ground beneath his feet. Thin ice indeed.

The key to his survival lied within Potter. A feral grin twisted his lips. And survive he would.

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Harry did not see Draco again until Potions. He was dutifully copying the procedure for brewing a cheering potion. The irony of Snape teaching to brew such a concoction was almost too much. Harry was sorely tempted to ask Dobby to slip a vial into the potions master's morning pumpkin juice. Gryffindor would surely lose a few points, but it would be good for a laugh. A real smile would probably make poor Snapes face break.

The telltale shriek of the door to the classroom being opened startled him out of his childish reverie. A blast of cold air followed the new arrival into the room and somehow he _knew_ it was Draco.

Gooseflesh pebbled his arms and fine hairs stood at attention on the back of his neck. The fires flickered and the candles dimmed. They seemed to tilt. As if their warmth was being drawn to Draco. And still, no one seemed to _see. _It seemed like a scene directly from some B rated muggle horror flick. Harry would have laughed had he been less terrified.

"Please pardon my tardiness, professor. I was ill. I feel quite alright now though," a slightly drawling, unmistakable voice uttered from the open doorway.

"Quite fine, Mr. Malfoy. I don't want my star pupil to overexert himself." Harry ignored snape. He was inconsequential. All that mattered was the frightening creature behind him, and the unmistakable urge to flee.

He knew it was irrational, but he felt like a cornered animal. He had the urge to bear his teeth at the overbearing presence of the other being violating his _space._ He wanted to snarl, lash out, do _something, _but the human, rational part of him stayed his hand, clenched his muscles, and waited the feeling out. His mind declared it irrational. Stating that there were several others much closer then Draco that Harry did not feel like threatening.

Harry refused to turn around for the remainder of the class. He did not want to face the silver glare that he knew would be waiting for him.


End file.
